


in that rich earth

by brightsidest



Category: The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, World War I, but nothing really SAD happens, kind of angsty i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 13:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightsidest/pseuds/brightsidest
Summary: Three fragments from a longer thing I was writing, which my brain won't let me finish but also won't let me keep to myself. I don't know. Set several years post-canon.Essentially, I think this is going to be a place for my short Secret Garden fics and drabbles.





	in that rich earth

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is - it was meant to be part of a long thing, but I kind of liked these on their own, even if they don't fit together that well.

Mary writes _remember your promise_ and _tell me what’s happening_ on her best sheets of paper, and then wipes it away with her hand, smearing black ink across the page. The black clots have the unsettling glossiness of blood, and it makes her shudder. She can’t imagine any of these letters finding them, anyway. She can’t imagine Dickon reading her letter in a trench somewhere in France, or Colin in some exotic, whitewashed building in Cairo or Jerusalem or some other place she isn’t allowed to know about. Maybe she’s imagining it wrong, anyway.

A letter from Colin arrived last week, and it didn’t say much. He hadn’t heard from Dickon in weeks, either, though as he said, the letters could have got lost, and they’d probably both moved around a lot. Mary isn’t sure whether he believes it. Colin can’t tell her much about what he’s been doing or who he’s been with, but he seems excited about it all. He starts every letter with _it’s very hot here_ , just as she begins every letter with _it’s very grey here,_ even if it isn't.

Later, in the secret garden, she digs a hole with her bare hands. The feeling of the soil under her hands is calming, working through the black clay with her fingers, mud splattered up to her elbows. A robin chirps in the trees and a worm works its way out of the oozing soil. She sprinkles seeds into the hole, and hopes that by the time seedlings come up, they’ve heard from Dickon. As she looks at the soil drying stiff on her hands, a line from a poem comes unbidden into her head - _there shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed_ – damn Colin and his books of poetry, she thinks.

She wishes she could send them a handful of mud from the secret garden, and a packet of seeds, and a fresh-cut flower, the colour of the sky over the moor, a spring of heather, and the sound of the robin’s call.

*

A friend of Mary’s uncle comes for dinner, and he talks incessantly about the war. He has three sons in France and here’s what they said about the Somme, and his neighbour just lost a son in this or that place, and they’re talking about turning part of his house into a military hospital, and on and on. Her uncle looks discomfited, as though he’d rather be talking about horses or dogs or gardens.

As soon as he’s left and wandered into the drawing room, Mary unclenches her teeth and allows the tears brimming in the corner of her eyes to fall. Her uncle is about to follow his guest, but he must have noticed the glimmer in her eyes and the way her shoulders are shaking, because he’s by her side in a moment and she buries her face in his jacket. He smells reassuringly like cigar smoke and weirdly, Martha’s furniture polish, and she sobs like a child.

“I just want them back,” she says, as soon as she can control her crying.

“I know,” says Archibald, and she knows that he does.

“I don’t care if they’re wounded or hurt or _different_ now, all that matters is that they’re alive, it’s the one thing I want and I’m not going to get it and why should I when so many people-”

She breaks off, thinking _I sound like I’m still the Sahib’s daughter, always wanting things_. Archibald shushes her and strokes her shoulder, as if she’s one of his greyhounds.

“Mary, nothing’s happened. If something had happened to Colin, I’d know.”

“It’s Dickon I’m worried about.” She wipes her face on the sleeve of her dress, feeling disgusting. “I heard from Colin last week.”

A flicker of hurt passes across her uncle’s face, and disappears.

“He’s fine,” she says quickly, “he couldn’t say much.” Her uncle nods.

“If anything had happened to Dickon, I’m sure Martha or Mrs Sowerby would tell you straight away. He’s a strong boy, he’ll be fine.” His voice is always a little awkward when he talks about Dickon, but she knows he tries.

He gives her a little squeeze and moves off to join his companion. Mary smiles at him gratefully, then goes upstairs to finish her letters. That night, she sleeps in Colin's bed, with his blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her face pressed into his pillow.

*

The next day, Mary is sitting on her bed, half listening to Martha chattering as she sweeps the floor. A clatter of hooves in the courtyard catches her attention, and she runs to the window, choking down panic and hope in equal measure. A fair-haired boy she doesn’t recognise is leaping from a horse, looking up at the house with apprehension in his face.

“Mistress Mary?” he says, as she runs out to greet him. He has a scarred face, and his eyes are as blue as the sky behind them. She’s become an expert at judging tone and inflection in the long years and months since the war began, and there’s something of a smile in his voice that calms her.

She nods, and he says “yes, I thought so” as if he’s seen her before. He reaches inside the pocket of his coat and brings out an envelope, liberally spattered with mud. She rips it open without thinking and finds a letter in Dickon’s rough printed handwriting, and a few other sheets with what look like drawings. A sparrow on barbed wire, a rough pencil drawing of the secret garden, a deer resting on grass.

“I was with him in France until last week. He knew I was from round here, and sent me with this letter. Suppose he thought it might not get past the censors, I don’t know.”

“Do you know him well?” Mary asks, eagerness pervading her voice.

“Not as such, but – my brother does, and he says he’s a remarkable man. He has this talent with animals and birds and maybe even people. Folks feel calm around him, I suppose.”

She knows exactly what he means; when Dickon runs his fingers through her hair, she feels as calm and docile as one of his animals. She watches the young man leave, a flood of happiness flowing through her: Dickon’s still alive, and healthy. There are muddy fingerprints on one of the drawings, and she presses it against her face, savouring the feeling of touching something he’s touched.

*


End file.
